Metafiction
by CoffeeMoonyAddict
Summary: A story is not a mere source of entertainment - a plain string of words embodied on cheap ink and old parchment. Written prose is immortalized as long as it's parchment survives the test of time; it can outlive its subjects, and even its author. SBRL


**Summary**: A story is not a mere source of entertainment, or a plain string of words embodied on cheap ink and old parchment. A written prose is forever immortalized as long as the parchment survives the test of time; its timelessness outlives its subjects, and even its author.

**Progress**: One-Shot

**A/N**: Just something that came across my mind when I was listening in a lecture about literature and literary devices. Haha anyway I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! ;)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. I wish I do, but alas...

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**Metafiction**

Because you know, it's all just lies.

Furious scribbles, jargon – showered on old parchment and dull ink. It's all about captivation; emotional overflowing – much like the ink that spilled over your desk the other day, forever tainting the polished mahogany, dying it black.

Your ever-tidy scrawl overlaps over each other, the derisive scratching over words that did not _simply quite mean_ the way you want them to.

A half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey graces the carpeted floor on which you stand. Its amber liquid beckons you hither.

It's about things that you don't understand, and don't give a damn for.

_But I must write this down. Before it's too late. _

Those were the final words that graced your subconscious, before that last swig of Firewhiskey fully inebriated your senses - knocking you completely unconscious.

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You told me that we could be together - together forever. We could write our own love story, unique from the world, special between the two of us; a legacy of our love.

You bought the parchment - the finest ones your galleon-bursting bank account could afford. Their velvety surface felt uncomfortable against the touch of my rough, scarred hands. But I accepted it despite my initial discomfort, only seeking to do my best to please you, to win your love and affections.

I procured the ink and the quills. Not as exuberant as yours, but I hope it fit the bill. You didn't seem to mind at that time, even commenting how the auburn shade of the quill feathers complemented the glow in my eyes. You never knew how much I hoped for your acceptance despite my tainted blood and humble background.

Together we bound this together into a book; our handiwork hardly congruent, but we accepted each other's effort, trying to figure out this novelty called love. Your long fingers against my calloused ones, intertwining like the pages and ink that became bound together into one being, one book.

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There was a particular summer when you invited me to visit your family home. While your family had not been privy into the depth of our relationship, they had been suspicious. I still remember Walburga Black's intense glare on my person, and Orion Black's cold indifference to my presence. Even your brother Regulus raised his eyebrows and sneered. Your warm hand on my shoulder was the only solace I had during that trip, amidst the cold walls of Grimmauld Place.

It was only when we were in the privacy of your bedroom, I could find myself starting to breathe again.

You rattled on in length about how you despised your family, and how your mother would burst if she found out you were a pouf. I sat on the edge of your bed, listening to your rant, always offering a listening ear.

I saw our reflection on the grand full length mirror on the side of your room. I saw your icy blue eyes - your most redeeming feature; your aquiline nose...your mop of dark raven tresses silkily tousled to frame your raving visage. Even your posture and the flourish of your gesture echoed aristocratic sentiments, betraying the heritage you despised so much.

Then I saw my reflection juxtaposed with yours, my plain button-up shirt and trousers a far cry from your Oxford dress shirt, accentuated with a pullover and Black family crest cufflinks. The scars that etched my body were a ghastly complement against your pristine countenance.

A stray tear escaped from my eyes, but this did not escape your attention. You stopped your ranting, and wiped away the liquid with your thumb. Your hand felt reassuring against my now-trembling body. One kiss led to the next, gentle caresses and exploring hands made us soon forget why we were there in the first place.

After that nasty house elf of yours tattled to the family about our activities that night...Well, suffice to say I was not invited back to the Black household again during our Hogwarts days.

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There were times when I almost gave up on writing my love story with you. Moments where my heart was devoid of feeling, my thoughts blocked by despair and anguish. Where silence should have engendered peace, instead it brought anxiety.

I remember tearing away page upon page, loosening the thread that bound our book together, tears streaming my eyes.

_How could I even imagined, dreamed, of being with someone as perfect as you?_

It was all a lie.

There was no way someone with my flaws was meant to share my life with a demigod like you.

There were times when we wouldn't speak for days, even weeks. A third party from the outside might assume this as a companionable silence. But how could it be companionable when I ached so much inside, dying to hear the baritone of your laugh?

Even after his marriage, you would spend more time with James than me, cooing at a pregnant Lily's belly. You frequented the Potter newlyweds' household much more than spending time in our small shared London flat. When you did come back, you reeked of alcohol and motorcycle smoke, often passing out on the couch, never sparing me a second glance.

I would remember the words you've promised in our relationship, strike over them in our book, and tear the pages apart. It is much easier to forget than to dwell in the past.

I found myself striking through the words we have written before, sometimes even annotating them with scribbles like _you liar_, or _sod off_.

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It came to a time where things slowed down to mere tolerance; co-habitation, rather than enjoying each other's company. We had a symbiotic relationship rather than one inspired by passion, lust, love.

Your pureblood tendencies grappled much with my tainted blood. You couldn't help it, it was inherent in you, this prejudice. According to you, our love - it had to be perfect - ideal, like a fairytale. Much like the stories that regaled you in your youth. Heroic, action-packed, with valiant protagonists and a happy ending. You found yourself become constantly at unease with my lack of grace and confidence, your flourishing script soon running over the words I had carefully but nervously penned. My efforts to make our relationship prosper were in vain, and never seemed to live up to your high-flying standards.

Gone were the days where our relationship blossomed; the times where we felt our schoolboy friendship develop into something more. Whatever climax our relationship had was long gone; sometimes you would not even write on our love manuscript for days, even months. I found my own scrawl becoming less organized, less proliferate, less inspired.

_I was never good enough, and never will be good enough._

Sometimes I wondered if I was merely a sorry excuse you had for running away from home.

As though you needed to justify to those cold parents of yours why you had that big fight, resulting in them violently taking your name off the family tree.

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When you had escaped from Azkaban and proved your innocence, I was beyond ecstatic.

I had searched madly during those twelve years of your imprisonment for all the tattered and torn pieces of parchment declaring our love; straightening out the crumpled pieces, copying them on fresh crisp parchment. As though doing this could rekindle the passion we lost through the passage of time.

The moment I had met you again in person in the Shrieking Shack, I knew that Lady Luck had given us another chance.

During your exile in your old family home, we had spent much time renewing our relationship - rekindling our passion with each other. Many nights had been spent in the flush of heated bodies; our touches rediscovering paths long neglected, but not forgotten.

It had never been as energized like the first time. Maybe it had something to do with age, time. Had the vision of our older bodies dispelled youthful fantasies?

Or maybe it was the less than favourable memories that recurred at the wrong moments. How could someone so easily remember how their significant other had neglected them in the past? Fear of betrayal - although the action had never actually occurred, the agony one faces is simply too traumatic to easily brush off.

In the book of time where history is recorded, a clean slate never truly exists. Regardless of how hard one tries to scratch and tear at the words that divulge the past, the vestiges will remain there, damaged but never fully destroyed.

Both of us knew this well, despite our efforts to ignore the truth that lay heavy upon our shoulders. Hope could do silly and wonderful things to the human persona. We still kept on trying, even though that raging passion had inevitably dwindled into a small flame through the years. We had taken consolation in that at least the fire had never been totally put out.

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When you fell across the veil, I felt my heart stop; I couldn't breathe. I felt that I was the one who died instead and got put out of existence.

I researched for ways, loopholes. Methods to pull you back from the veil. All were moot.

It felt as though the love story we were writing just came to a standstill. It was not a feeling of ebbing away, with the slow rotting of the senses. No, from the very moment you were gone, I knew I had died with you. Only the physical shell of my being remained to thread the earth.

It was abrupt. Very much unlike the previous squabbles we had, the previous scratches and deleting of words; words whispered and words forgotten. No, this time, it were as though an invisible hand; the hand of Fate, had thrown the manuscript of our love into a burning furnace - the words; the ink that had formed the curvatures, shapes, letters...parchment carefully folded and unfolded, edited and mulled over - all burnt and destroyed. Your aristocratic script and my tedious scrawl reduced to ashes, reduced to fodder to spur greater fires of passion for the future, at the expense of our own.

But maybe one day, we could meet again in another world, another utopia - where unpublished books lie, completed by Fate, unpublished and unspoken.

_End._

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**A/N:** Liked it? Reviews would be much appreciated! :) Let me know what you think!


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